A Common Enemy
by Enelya
Summary: Fingolfin, recently come to Mandos, seeks out his half-brother for explanations of various issues in the house of Finwë. In short: it's all Finarfin's fault.


**AN:** Tolkien owns everything, of course. Rating is PG-13 for mild swearing, references to Kinslaying, and mentions of Maedhros/Fingon, the worst kept secret relationship in Beleriand. This began as a chance for Fingolfin and Fëanor to have a monumental bust-up, then started becoming serious... and so it swings from semi-serious to not-so-serious as it goes on. Enjoy, and reviews would be awesome.

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'What are _you_ doing here?' 

Fingolfin blinked – or tried to, rather. Puzzled, he reached up to feel his face, and realised that he could not feel his hand either. There was a faint gleam of starlight where his hand should have been, lines of silver sketching a delicate image in the air, but nothing more. 'Am I dead?' he said to his surroundings.

'Are balrogs fiery?' a voice retorted, the same as the one he had heard before. Fingolfin took a moment to compose himself, squaring his non-corporeal shoulders. He was dead, then. This must be the Halls of Mandos, where he would spend his days in quiet contemplation of his life. He would remain here for Eru-knew-how-long – until the end of time was a distinct possibility – and he knew that he deserved it. It was a bleak prospect, but worse still was the thought of meeting those he had killed, or the Doomsman of Arda himself.

All the same, he had not expected Námo to be so… belligerent.

'Who's there?' he asked cautiously. Silence fell, and he began to think that he was alone. The moments stretched out – although he had no way of telling the passage of time in this place – when a voice said 'Well, look what Ungoliant dragged in.' Had the speaker been alive, they would have certainly been sneering.

Fingolfin tried to blink again, sighed, and peered into the swirling mists of Mandos. He recognised that voice all too well… 'Fëanor?'

'Oh, I cannot believe this,' said a voice, and then Fëanor was striding out of the mist so that they stood several feet apart. 'First you attempt to usurp my place in my father's heart, then you follow me to Beleriand, and now you have the nerve to die and bother me in Mandos! Am I ever to get any peace?'

Several angry responses rose in Fingolfin's mind as he looked his half-brother up and down. He bit them back, and settled on the most neutral. 'You appear to be on fire.'

Fëanor glanced at the ghostly flames that played over him. 'Even in death, the fëa remembers the form of the hröa, especially how it looked just before dying. If you stay in this place long enough, you'll be able to change your appearance.'

'But you've been dead for over four hundred years, and you still look the same,' Fingolfin pointed out.

'Well, I quite like them,' Fëanor said, looking fondly at his flaming arms. 'Now I am _literally_ the Spirit of Fire, which I couldn't achieve with a body, and it's fun to run screaming at newcomers and watch them flee.'

'Mature as always,' Fingolfin observed sourly. 'I hope you know that while you were here playing poltergeist, those of us who were still alive were doing real work. _Your_ dirty work.'

'What, the Silmarils haven't been retrieved yet?' Fëanor said in disbelief. 'I assumed that you were here because you'd got drunk at the celebrations and broke your neck falling down a flight of stairs.'

'Hardly,' Fingolfin replied tightly. 'I died fighting Morgoth.'

'Really?'

'Yes. In single combat.'

'You went to fight Morgoth.'

'Yes.'

'One of the greatest powers of Arda.'

'Yes.'

'The source of all evil in the world.'

'Yes.'

'Alone.'

'Yes.'

'Without so much as a volley of arrows to help you.'

'Er… yes.'

'Well,' said Fëanor finally, 'that's got to be the most spectacularly stupid idea in the entire history of Arda.'

'You're a fine one to talk!'

'Oh?'

'First you make your Silmarils and don't bother to guard them properly–'

'It's hard to guard against evil personified.'

'Then you and your sons swear that blasted oath–'

'They needed something to get them excited.'

'_Then_ you murder half of Alqualondë and steal their ships–'

'I was planning to reimburse them.'

'And then you burn the ships and leave us stranded, forcing us to cross the Helcaraxë. Oh, and speaking of which–' Fingolfin strode angrily across the floor, and punched Fëanor in the face. '_That_ is for drawing a sword on me and _that_ is for leaving us behind and _that_ is for my sister-in-law's kin and _that_ is for my son's wife…' He frowned as Fëanor did not react. The punches passed straight through him.

'No physical form, remember? The inhabitants of Mandos are left to fight with their wit, which means that you are going to be heavily disadvantaged.'

'I am sure that I will manage.' Fingolfin controlled himself again. 'And after all that,' he concluded, 'you get yourself killed by balrogs. At least I made it to Morgoth.'

'And got yourself killed.'

'Well, yes. But I wounded him.'

'Was it fatal?' asked Fëanor hopefully.

'I cut his foot off, so it could be fatal if it's not treated.'

'Hmph. Well, I'm sure you did your best,' Fëanor said condescendingly. 'Goodbye. If we ever meet again, it will be an eternity too soon.' He began to disappear into the mist.

'Wait!'

'What? What do you want?'

'An apology, for one thing. And an explanation.'

'An apology? Oh, very well: Fingolfin, I assure you, no-one is sorrier than I that you were born.'

'That is not what I mean, and you know it!'

'I am many things, but I am not a mind-reader. I leave that to the lovely Artanis.' Fëanor smiled fondly. 'How is she, anyway?'

'She's married one of the Teleri that remained in Beleriand.'

'You're joking.'

'I am completely serious.'

'Such a waste. Is that all you wanted? I think that some new fëar have just arrived, and my balrog trick only works while they're still disoriented.'

'No, I am not.'

'Well, I doubt that either of us will survive this without some sort of strengthening.' Fëanor began to check his pockets, eventually producing a bottle. Fingolfin watched uncomprehendingly as he took a large swig of whatever was inside it. 'How do you do that? Alcohol doesn't have a fëa.'

'This sort does.'

'What is it?'

'Whisky.'

'But how–'

'Because it's a _spirit_, see?' When Fingolfin merely rolled his eyes, Fëanor looked put out. 'I wouldn't expect you to appreciate such refined humour, anyway. Everybody knows that I got the brains of the family. And the looks, too.'

'And the modesty,' Fingolfin said dryly. Fëanor waved his hand in a 'that-goes-without-saying' gesture. 'So. Explain why you abandoned us.'

'I hardly call being left half a day's walk from Tirion _abandoned_.'

'We had marched away against the advice of the Valar, we had defied the prophecy of Mandos, and we had slain our kin at Alqualondë – an event _you_ instigated. You had taken every ship bigger than a rowboat, and then you burnt them on the other shore!'

'Well, for a start,' Fëanor used the bottle to gesture, 'the ships would have been useless anyway. The damn things started to sink as soon as you looked at them, cracked on the first reef we ran into. And we hardly forced you to cross the ice. You could have turned back like Finarfin.'

'Finarfin did not swear an oath of friendship–'

'Ah, who's the one swearing stupid oaths now?'

'You left us no choice but to follow you across the Helcaraxë!'

'Did it ever occur to you that I did not _want_ to be followed?'

The question stunned Fingolfin into silence for a few moments. 'No,' he said at last, 'I had not considered that. Was there truly none among us that you would have missed?'

Fëanor looked thoughtful for a moment. 'Artanis, it would have been dull without her. And Irissë, because Tyelko would pine otherwise.'

'No-one else?'

'Apart from Nerdanel? No, not particularly. Oh dear,' he added at the look on Fingolfin's face, 'is it terribly hurtful that I didn't want my half-Vanya little brother tagging along?'

For a moment, Fingolfin looked as though he would find a way of punching Fëanor, lack of bodies or not. Then he smiled. 'Resorting to name-calling, are we? This jealousy of yours is really very childish, Fëanor.'

Fëanor looked at him in confusion. 'What are you talking about? Who could I possibly be jealous of?'

'Me, for a start.'

There was silence, and then Fëanor's hysterical laughter rang through the halls. 'Oh, Varda, you are even more deluded than I thought!' he managed to gasp. 'Why in Eru's name would I be jealous of _you_?'

'For existing. For taking a share of Father's love. For having a family when you did not.'

'The first two points are grounds for annoying me, nothing more. As for the third, is a wife and seven children not a family?'

'Not all of it, no.'

Fëanor stopped smiling. 'I had a family,' he said stiffly, 'Mother, Father and I, and we were happy.'

'You never thought that Father might have wanted another child? Or your mother?'

'Another child?' Fëanor said, aghast. 'Why would she want another child? She had _me_!'

'Yes, you'd think that she would have learnt her lesson…'

'Don't you say a word about my mother!'

'Why not? You constantly insult _mine_.'

'In any case,' Fëanor continued, 'Mother died, and that was the end of the matter. Or so I thought. Father thought differently.'

'Indeed he did.'

'Don't misunderstand me,' Fëanor said quickly, 'I wanted him to be happy, of course. I strived to be the perfect son, although I know I am not the easiest person to love–'

'Really?' asked Fingolfin, all innocence.

'Don't attempt sarcasm again, please, it pains me to see it misused. Father did ask me once or twice if I would like somebody else in the family, but I assumed that he was talking about getting a dog or some animal like that. Nobody, least of all me, imagined that he would marry again.'

'And yet he did.'

'Yes, although by the time he remarried, I was no longer a child and had no need of a mother figure. I knew that he still loved my mother, but he was a full-blooded male and I supposed that he had needs as much as the rest of us, although it horrified me to think about it at the time.'

'Me too,' Fingolfin said with a slight grimace. 'Walking in on my parents in their bedroom when I was barely forty is not something I care to remember.'

'Certainly not,' Fëanor agreed. They sat in silence for a few minutes.

'Go on, then.'

'I'd only met Indis once or twice, and I thought she was pretty to look at and pleasant enough company for Father, but nothing more. I did not expect them to have children, and was astounded when she became pregnant – but then they had golden-haired Findis, and I could accept that Father wanted a daughter as well as a son.' His face darkened. 'And then _you_ were born, with your black hair and blue-grey eyes, the spitting image of Father, and I cursed myself for not realising it sooner. Indis made Father, the Noldor – the entire world – forget my mother, and now _you_ were going to make them forget me.'

'That was never my wish.'

'Nevertheless.'

'Was this, incidentally, why you made the Silmarils? Because you wanted to be remembered?'

'Perhaps,' Fëanor said evasively. 'And then two more children came along, and I realised that it was only a matter of time before my own father forgot me entirely, unless I acted to counter it.'

'Did it ever occur to you that Father wanted you to have a family larger than two people?'

Fëanor looked shocked for a moment. 'Now that you mention it, no.'

'He always talked about you, you know. I was utterly sick of hearing about you before we even met.'

'Really?'

'_Yes_.'

'From the vehemence of your tone I assume that you wanted me forgotten as much as your mother.'

'Neither of us wanted you to be forgotten, although…'

'Although?'

'I wished that people remembered that Finwë had more than one son.'

'Hah!' said Fëanor bitterly.

'Listen,' Fingolfin said pointedly, 'do you have any idea what it was like to grow up in your shadow? The notion that I was your replacement works both ways, you know.' He mimicked his father's voice. ' "Fëanor taught himself to read at ten, Nolofinwë, and he created a completely new alphabet at twenty. Isn't that something to strive for?" It was bloody discouraging, and what was worse was that it only happened to _me_. He'd mellowed out by the time Finarfin was born, and never pestered _him_ about it.'

'That would explain much about Finarfin.'

'And then you went and got married and had three sons, while I was only beginning to court Anairë. I'd barely known her for a year, and then it was "now, we want lots of golden-haired grandchildren, don't we Indis? They'll be able to play with Fëanor's sons, won't that be lovely?" And Mother would roll her eyes and drink brandy until she couldn't walk straight. And even after Fingon was born, you kept having children. I thought you would never stop.'

Fëanor looked smug. 'I was willing, and Nerdanel was willing, and we could always depend on Maedhros to look after them while we were, er, discussing household matters in our bedroom. The more the merrier, I say.'

'Anairë and I always believed in quality, not quantity,' Fingolfin said primly.

Fëanor snorted. 'Whatever makes you feel better. Is it true that all your children were born a year after your wedding anniversary?'

'No!' Fingolfin snapped. 'Irissë was born a year after my begetting day anniversary,' he admitted. Fëanor merely grinned.

'Oh, shut up.'

'I said nothing!'

'But you were _thinking_ it!'

'I thought we were leaving the mind-reading to Artanis?'

'Very well. Speaking of which, the way you trailed after her begging for hair was utterly abhorrent.'

'She didn't seem to think so.'

Fingolfin looked horrified, then said very firmly, 'I am not going to think about that comment in any depth. Suffice to say it was no way to behave towards your niece.'

'Only my half-niece,' Fëanor countered. 'And besides, you can hardly speak of proper behaviour when your own children are having illicit affairs behind your back.'

'What in Varda's name are you talking about?' Fëanor was looking increasingly amused. Fingolfin suddenly went pale. 'Irissë – if any of your sons have tried to seduce her, I'll geld them myself. And you too, for good measure.'

'You may rest easy on that account. For a start, _your_ daughter is more likely to seduce _my_ sons than the other way around. In any case, Irissë is too independent to bind herself to one ellon.' Fingolfin had almost allowed himself to relax again when Fëanor continued, with a wicked gleam in his eye: 'I refer rather to the more-than-cousinly-affection that exists between your firstborn and mine.'

For a moment there was dead silence. Then, '_WHAT?!_'

Fëanor merely laughed until his sides ached.

'Fingon… and Maedhros?' Fingolfin asked dully. He shook his head violently. 'No. It's not possible, it wouldn't happen, and if by some cruel fate it is, I will assume that Maedhros is in league with Morgoth and has forced my son into these despicable deeds.'

Fëanor's eyes flashed. 'Maedhros is no more in league with the darkness than I am, and I highly doubt that he has forced Fingon to do anything.'

'How can you be so sure?'

'He's still alive, for one thing.' Fingolfin looked so horrified at the implications that Fëanor was moved to pity and thrust the ghostly bottle of whisky into his hand. It was lucky that the alcohol was self-sustaining, he reflected, as his half-brother drained the bottle in one swallow.

The whisky – or rather, the spirit of whisky – helped Fingolfin regain his belief in the inherent goodness of the world, and he pushed the terrible thoughts firmly away. Maedhros and Fingon, he thought disgustedly, picturing the gossips of Tirion. Whatever would they think of next?

'In any case,' said Fëanor, in an attempt to be comforting, 'I'm rather disappointed.'

Fingolfin raised his eyebrows. 'You are?' That was good, he thought. The two branches of Finwë's descendants in a united front would surely disperse the rumours.

'Yes,' Fëanor said. 'Maedhros could do much better than a secondary branch of royalty.'

'Is that so?' Fingolfin said coldly. He was remembering belatedly why spending any amount of time with Fëanor was so infuriating.

'Not the Vanyar, of course,' Fëanor continued, 'but perhaps one of the Teleri. Yes.' He smiled at the thought. 'One of Olwë's kin, for the colouring. Imagine what lovely hair their children would have, all red and silver…'

Fingolfin could not stop himself. 'Like blood on a sword?' he snapped.

Fëanor sighed in frustration. 'Are you _still_ sore about Alqualondë?'

'_Still?_ You committed the vilest act to occur in Valinor, one that no-one had thought of before! Of course I am _still_ sore about it! In any case,' Fingolfin continued, trying to calm down, 'you should be worried less about me than the Teleri, if you ever fall into their hands.'

An almost-unseen emotion passed across Fëanor's face – slight guilt. 'I never meant to kill anyone,' he said defensively. 'I only gave them flesh wounds.'

'Flesh wounds to the head?'

'Anatomy is not my strong point.'

'Neither is tact.'

'And for all that you are called Nolofinwë, wisdom is not yours.'

Silence. The mist swirled, the ghostly bottle refilled itself once more.

'Huh. It's all Finarfin's fault, anyway.'

'You said it.' Fëanor retrieved the bottle and took another large swig. 'Has the nerve to have a flirtatious daughter with amazing hair. If it wasn't for Artanis I wouldn't have made the bloody Silmarils in the first place.'

'And Morgoth wouldn't have stolen them–'

'And we wouldn't have gone to Beleriand–'

'And you wouldn't be dead–'

'Or you.'

'We were halfway across the ice before I realised that he wasn't coming, did you know that? I bet he was still choosing his wardrobe while we were fighting. He turned up just in time to do the big victory march into Alqualondë.'

'And then he turns straight around again, crawls to the Valar a bit, and gets let back into Tirion scot-free.'

'_And_ he's king now, not that there's anyone left to rule over because we're all in Beleriand. I bet he spends the whole day lying on the beach with what's-her-name, his wife. I bet he has those drinks that are orange or blue or pink and have little umbrellas.'

'And all the time we're stuck here, drinking ghost-whisky.'

'Huh. Not fair at all.'

'I bet he's adopted.'

'Exactly. No-one's that nice.'

'Probably comes from a family of Vanyar with fifteen children already.'

'Well,' said Fingolfin, looking as dignified as possible while swaying slightly, 'I intend to punch him until his face turns blue when next we meet.'

'And I'll help – actually, Ambarussa know this trick with a weasel, and I've always wanted to try it…'

Voices, now beginning to slur, spread out in ripples across the world and came to Mandos, who began to rethink his prophecies; to Varda, who smiled at brothers reconciled; and even to Eru Ilúvatar, who rejoiced at one of the hurts of Arda beginning to heal…

Finarfin, however, would not be pleased.


End file.
